But it was:—“Belts,
belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
An’ it was “Belts,
belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
O buckle an’ tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison’s down
to the Park!
When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the
East
‘E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks
like a beast,
An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent
deceased
Ere ’e’s fit for to
serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of
the Queen!
Now all you recruities what’s drafted today,
You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my
lay,
An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as
I may:
A soldier what’s fit for a
soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier .
. .
First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’
huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out
your guts—
Ay, drink that ’ud eat the live steel from your
butts—
An’ it’s bad for the
young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad
for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes—as it will past
a doubt—
Keep out of the wet and don’t go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An’ it crumples the young
British soldier.
Crum-, crum-,
crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:
You must wear your ’elmet for all that is said:
If ’e finds you uncovered ’e’ll
knock you down dead,
An’ you’ll die like
a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool
of a soldier . . .
If you’re cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it’s beer for the young
British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer
for the soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old—
A troop-sergeant’s widow’s the nicest
I’m told,
For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain’t enough for
a soldier.
’Nough,
’nough, ’nough for a soldier . . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch ’em—you’ll
swing, on my oath!—
Make ’im take ’er and keep ’er:
that’s Hell for them both,
An’ you’re shut o’
the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse,
curse of a soldier . . .
When first under fire an’ you’re wishful
to duck,
Don’t look nor take ’eed at the man that
is struck,
Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to
your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front,
front like a soldier . . .
When ’arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She’s human as you are—you treat
her as sich,
An’ she’ll fight for
the young British soldier.
